Ssi For Dummies

32 year old Sophie decided it's time to stop hiding so she filled up an application to be a Sugar Baby. Weekends that used to be filled up with Netflix and comfort food are now changed into a high-paying profession. Well, weekend profession. She's still the busy working mom of 2 during the weekdays. 19 year old Abigail is the average college girl who has a cuckoo aunt. Her proposal has backfired when her aunt decided to use her info in the profile she's setting up at Cupcake, a Sugar Baby website. Let's hope nobody finds out Abigail signed up as a Sugar Baby. Let's pray harder for Aunt Sophie who has the confidence to pull off being an Abigail during the weekends. Cross your fingers! And your legs too, Soph. I mean, Abby. Err, Weekend-Abby. Cross your legs, Weekend-Abby!

"You need to shut up baby. Let me take care of your needs. Can you do that for me?" He unzipped my dress, as it falls freely down to the floor. ***** The lifestyle is not for everyone. That was the first warning that she got from the woman.  She's in need of cash. Her parents suddenly got a divorce. Leaving her to struggle with her financial education alone.  She never imagined at the end of her college years to be like this. Gone was the lifestyle that she used to have. The best friends, and even the boyfriend. She jumped at the first chance to be a sugar baby. Because deep down she knew that she needed the money, that it would be over in a year. Then she can find a job and move on with her life.  ***** He never needed a girlfriend. They're always too needy for his time. And time was the one thing that he treasured.  He's a workaholic. He likes the arrangement of a sugar baby where he can pay a sum of money for a companion of a young attractive woman.  His friend actually suggested the idea. With the last sugar baby being too attached to him. It's time for him to find another one. A less demanding one. ***** Will he get what he paid for? *Warning! R-Rated for 18+ due to strong, explicit language and sexual content*.

The city was overrun by zombies. My girlfriend, Callie Bernson, the team leader, had taken my best friend, Dan Harrington, and fled in our only armored vehicle, leaving me behind in the shelter to die. Outside, the scratching of claws against metal echoed through the corridors. The defensive barricades were already starting to fail. My heart sank into despair. I raised my gun to my temple, ready to end it quickly, when a stream of floating text suddenly appeared in front of my eyes. [It’s hilarious. That cheating couple thinks they’re heading to Paradise, but that place has fallen. It’s packed with high-level zombies now.] [Don’t die, PC! The person in a coma in the shelter—the one your so-called best friend called dead weight and abandoned—is actually the only S-class ability user. Once she wakes up, she’ll wipe the floor with everything!] [Just you wait. When your buddy crawls back here in disgrace and finds the big boss awake, he will go to step in and steal the credit for saving her.] [Hurry up and die already, cannon fodder. I can’t wait for the tragic apocalypse romance between the best friend and the big boss.] I lowered the gun and sprinted toward the quarantine room. Inside, a woman lay on the bed, sleeping peacefully. I strode over and slapped her hard across the face. “Honey!” I shouted. “Time to get to work!”

On the third day after our divorce was finalized, my ex-wife, Georgie Anderson, sent me a text message. [Why haven’t you transferred your salary from this month to me?] I thought she was joking. [We’re already divorced.] [So? What does it matter if we’re divorced? You should transfer nineteen thousand dollars from your twenty-thousand-dollar income, just like you did before. The remaining one thousand dollars will be your pocket money. When you were unemployed, I was the one who took care of you. Now that we’re divorced, you’re turning your back on me?] I stared at her text messages and fell silent for a really long time. Throughout our three-year marriage, I gave her nineteen thousand dollars out of my twenty-thousand-dollar salary. She was responsible for "budgeting" our household expenses. However, she spent my money on her civil service exam, afternoon teas with her besties, and even on her study partner, whom I’d never met. As for me, I handled all the house chores—cooking dinner, mopping the floors and doing the laundry. But when I took a little time after work to game, she would yell at me for being lazy. She was demanding money from me even after we were divorced. Her reason was that I might spend the money without thinking. I blocked her number. Three seconds later, she sent me a text message from another phone number. [You’ll regret this. I’m trying to help you one last time.] I laughed. ‘Helping me?’ I thought. Nobody had ever helped me in the past three years.

In eight years together, my boyfriend—Shayne Raffield—blocked me eighty-eight times. This time? Because I missed his call. At my best friend's birthday party. Usually, I'd panic-order a gift, then stand outside his office, head down, ready to beg. But today? I blocked him first. The Chat Feed popped up, loud as ever: [Nooo, Ley-Bae, don't block Shay-Shay! He's just got abandonment issues. Comfort him!] [Shay's heart = shattered; Eyes = red. Ley, go! One pout and he's yours again!] Then Shayne called. Didn't say a word. Just breathed for ten seconds and hung up. The Chat Feed freaked out. [AHHHH SHAY LOVES LEY SO MUCH HE JUST SUCKS AT SAYING IT. THIS COWARD'S GONNA LOSE HIS GIRL.]

Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin. I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun. When he street raced, I rode shotgun. When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup. When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them. Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked. They all said I must be madly in love with him. Even Charles started to believe it. So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed. Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me. But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country. He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed. I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier. "Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love." That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.